


Because We Must

by kitanthony



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Original Character Death(s), Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitanthony/pseuds/kitanthony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wonder why Mycroft always carries that brolly around? This is how John Watson found out.<br/>Beginning: "After the Fall of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson was consumed with loneliness. Not just because of the loss of his best friend, but because almost no one understood. Only one person did, and it thoroughly shocked him who."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because We Must

After the Fall of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson was consumed with loneliness. Not just because of the loss of his best friend, but because almost no one understood. Only one person did, and it thoroughly shocked him who.

"John, you have a visitor," came Mrs. Hudson's quiet voice from the doorway.

The doctor groaned. "Tell them to go away!" Unless it's Sherlock, he wanted to add. But it wouldn't be. Ever again.

It was a month after the Fall, and John was sick of "visitors." If he had to look at one more sympathetic face, he'd punch it. If he had to hear one more time how sorry someone was he would-

His thoughts were interrupted as Mycroft Holmes entered the flat, causing him to blink in surprise before continuing to glare into his tea. There was a heavy silence as the elder Holmes brother sat across from him in John's chair, as the good doctor was occupying Sherlock's. Finally, John huffed irritatedly and spoke.

"Sorry, did I say 'come in'? I really meant to say 'go the hell away'. Apologies for the confusion, they're just so similar." He hadn't seen the man who was commonly referred to as the British Government since confronting him about snitching to Moriarty, and fancied blaming him for what happened at St. Bart's. Not that having someone to blame made him feel any better, it actually just added anger to the sorrow and empty feeling inside him.

Mycroft was, of course, not intimidated in the least and simply looked around the flat. After a moment, he clicked his tongue, seeming to come to a decision. "Well I was hoping to find something better, but I suppose it'll have to do."

"What will 'have to do'?" John snapped, what little patience he had left wearing thin from confusion as well as the unwelcome presence.

"This." Mycroft reached into his pocket and withdrew something, placing it on the table.

It was a watch. No. Not a watch, his watch. John looked at it and felt a sharp pang of sadness.

Surprisingly unscathed by the fall, it ticked away as though nothing had happened. A shaky hand reached out and picked it up gingerly, as though it were fragile- the last piece of something and if it broke, all was lost. "I don't understand." He tried to keep his voice even as he studied the timepiece.

"Put it on," came the quiet reply.

He did, and instantly felt better. Grief still overwhelmed him, but looking at the watch, with its hands moving as each second passed and slowly turned into a minute. He felt almost...peaceful. He looked back up to meet the other's eyes, and saw flickers of emotion in them that he'd never seen there before. The most prominent was something akin to understanding. Not really the sympathetic sort, but more like just knowing. If Mycroft had said at that point, "I understand what you're going through," John felt he would have believed him. In fact, he believed it and the man wasn't saying anything.

Regaining his composed face, Mycroft simply nodded, satisfied. He picked up his brolly from its resting position on the chair and stood to leave.

"Wait," John said, causing the other man to pause at the door. "How did you know...?" He was having a hard time finding the right words.

Fortunately, Mycroft understood- maybe it was a hidden talent of his- and sat back down. "Ever wonder why I carry this umbrella with me wherever I go?" he asked, lifting up the item in question and staring at it.

The army doctor shrugged. "Rains quite a bit."

"That wasn't what I was asking. I asked if you've wondered why I carry this brolly around."

"I guess," John answered, realizing he has never seen him without that particular one.

"I always keep this with me, much for the same reason you will continue to wear that watch."

When Mycroft raised his gaze again, John saw the sorrow he felt himself and found he couldn't muster the anger he had earlier. It wasn't gone, of course, but at the moment silenced by the forlorn look in Mycroft's eyes.

"And why is that?" John asked.

"Because I must." He turned the brolly over in his hands as he spoke. "Just as you must. Because we cannot bear to part with what we hold dearest in our hearts. And because we cannot fully accept the loss. Acknowledge it, perhaps- you may get there one day- but never accept."

Before he could stop himself, John asked, "What did you lose?"

Mycroft held his gaze, having dropped his emotionless mask almost completely for the first time in years. "My laughter, smile, warmth, and breath."

His words sent a chill up John's spine. "Tell me."

The taller man saw an almost desperate look in the other's eyes- he needed to know someone else has experienced what he's going through. As much as it pained Mycroft to think and feel those things again, he did find some comfort in the idea of telling someone about it all. "It started with a blind date."

John listened intently as Mycroft told him of a man named George Clay, a past client of Sherlock's from before John's time. Sherlock had tricked his brother into a blind date with the man, for reasons known only to the sociopath himself. They got along famously and couldn't wait 24 hours to see each other again. George worked as an English and Literature professor, and Mycroft met him at the university the next day wet from the rain outside. The teacher had scolded him and gave Mycroft his umbrella to use when he left. After that, Mycroft wasn't to be caught in the rain without a brolly, or he'd never hear the end of it.

"George was infinitely kind," Mycroft said, a fond but sad smile on his face. "We were together for a long time, not nearly long enough though. He bravely moved in with me." He gave a short, strained laugh as he said the last part. Then the smile vanished, replaced by the broken, lonely look he had taken on earlier.

John braced himself for the worst.

"There was an accident," Mycroft continued. His eyes grew cold for a moment. "Or that's what the public thinks. That's what I was supposed to think. I may have...pulled a few strings. I couldn't learn everything without raising alarms and risking myself- indispensable as I am, I'm not above being punished one way or another." His expression grew softer again, and even more sad if possible. "But I know that he had some incriminating information, which he came across by chance it seems, and suffered for it." Mycroft could practically see the car bursting into flames after crashing, despite never having witnessed it in person or indirectly.

John hummed in acknowledgment, knowing anything he said would just upset the other man, and to let him continue if he had more to say. Which he did.

"When Irene Adler died the first time, I told Sherlock something. 'All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.' "

"You wish you could take it back?" John guessed.

"Not at all," Mycroft said. "I stand by it. I would, however, like to add to it." He took a breath. " 'Caring is not an advantage, but it is unavoidable. Love is a distraction and a weakness, but it is also a necessity.' " He stood. "And now I really do think I should leave."

"Don't forget your brolly."

Mycroft froze and looked at John with an unreadable expression, then his mouth twitched upward just a bit. He swept out of the room with a barely audible, "Never."

The rest of John's evening was spent staring at the watch on his wrist, memorizing every detail- the look of the face, the feel of the strap, the sound of the ticking hands. And from then on, whenever someone inquired why John was wearing a second watch, he simply said, "Because I must."

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this a rather angsty introduction to the character my friend and I consider headcanon- Professor George Clay. Nothing will convince us he doesn't exist.


End file.
